


Of Love, Rapture, and Winged Pigs

by Spinning Place (buttercups3)



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, minor season 5 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 22:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/Spinning%20Place
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After sharing a dance at Downton Abbey, lovers Tony and Mary abscond into a back stairwell for a private moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Love, Rapture, and Winged Pigs

Slender fingers compress and release Tony’s shoulder, languidly skating down to his bicep, as if Mary were tracing it naked rather than through tailcoat sleeve. _Waltz_ , he orders his feet, and they somewhat obey. At once she appears to remember herself and straightens her posture: Lady Mary restored. Sucking in enough oxygen to tempt dizziness, Tony wills his blood not to pool where it’s unwanted, arching his eyebrow at her ever-so-slightly in warning. _You can hide your arousal, Mary; I cannot._

The small part of him that once believed he might be sated by sleeping with Mary is no longer deceived. He wants her more fiercely, recklessly than ever. His love has swelled to stupid proportions. Yes, he is a stupid, careless man, and he’s dragged both their reputations into a well with no glint of watery bottom. 

His eyes dart to Lord Grantham, ruddy-cheeked and cross with Tom Branson, likely over some Downton business. Tony wonders if it’s a matter that should involve Mary, but if that’s the case, Tom is ever Mary’s ally. 

When Tony’s eyes settle back on the pert, pink lips and above them, lively, dark eyes, he senses something impish at work. 

“Charles Blake was hardly flattering to you earlier this week when we spoke,” she begins, flicking a thread from Tony’s shoulder. “He claimed I shouldn’t be cavorting with a man who’s my intellectual inferior.” 

Tony sniffs and furrows his brow, fighting against a bloom of ire. It’s obvious Mary is scrutinizing him for reaction, and he must remain the gentleman. He swallows and steadies his face. _But why mention it?_ he wonders. _A test?_  

“Rather churlish…” _Ass_ , really. But in truth, “I don’t strictly disagree with him… on the ending part, that is.” 

“Oh?” Mary nearly stops dancing for surprise, but Tony tightens his grip on her waist. _Keep moving, Mary_. Being lovers—a delicate and dangerous act under any circumstances—is particularly challenging here at her home. 

“Indeed. I find you to be one of the cleverest people—man or woman—I have had the privilege of knowing. I do, however, fancy myself smart enough to keep you entertained.” 

In a moment Tony’s pulse decrescendos, but his face remains perversely hot as he gazes over her shoulder at the dance floor. From his peripheral vision he detects her slightly up-turned lips, and even the hint of Mary smiling is enough to tempt him back toward happiness. 

“If we were to marry,” he continues, “It’s important you understand that we would run our affairs as equals. We both have considerable obligations to our families, and I believe we’d make each other great counselors; but never would I dominate you on Downton, or your son’s future… I want to share in your life, not eclipse it.” 

Mary’s eyes drift unfocused for a moment. All of this inextricably ties to Matthew, Tony well knows. She’s not snubbing him; only, she must wade through the emotional morass. He can and will be patient. 

He gives her a polite moment and finishes, “I admire you so very greatly, Mary, most especially your brain.” 

“And I appreciate that.” She flashes white teeth so pretty his breath catches in his throat. “Especially when Papa thinks my brain stuffed full of silly, feminine notions.” 

“He’ll come ‘round, darling.” 

“I daresay he won’t have a choice. For the thing that surely trumps my intellect is my stubbornness.” 

“Yes. I know something of your stubbornness.” A grin plays at his lips, and he so badly wants to brush aside the raven strand of hair that has tumbled across her forehead. He clearly stares too long. 

She narrows her eyes. “Oh and do you admire that as well?”

“Admire? Yes. Though I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pain me some.” Tony immediately regrets that bit of honesty. He tries hard to keep the melancholy he chose for himself out of their relationship. Mary fairly warned him, and complaining becomes no one. 

She manages to take it in good humor, leaning in close enough to tickle the minute hairs of his ear with her breath: “Shall I make it up to you?” 

She ignores his furrowed brow to lead him by the hand out of the heat of sandwiched bodies into a drafty back stairwell. His heart thunders so loudly, he swears she can hear it. This is wildly imprudent, and yet what’s set in motion he has no will to stop.

“Won’t the servants catch us?” he attempts weakly, but she’s already raking insistent fingertips over the rising bulge of his trousers. 

“Not if we’re quick,” she punctuates with an aching squeeze. 

He drops to the step below her, and cupping both her cheeks in his hands, presses his lips against hers—silky, alcoholic, a touch of maraschino cherry. Their kiss grows desperate fast, and she has to keep pushing away his fingers from her hair to prevent the mess he’s unwittingly determined to make. Sweat wanders down his temple, and he wishes to God he could discard his tails. 

As her fingers investigate the clasps of his trousers, he slides both hands under red, beaded dress and satiny black slip, up the gentle curve of silk stockings, passing over her garter belt, until he finally finds his prize: the loose, gauze of her undergarment, soaked through with desire. 

Just as he nudges aside her drawers and slips in two fingers where she is wet and swollen, she manages to squeeze his tip with an eagerness that makes him throb. They gasp together, then freeze together, alert for intruders. They should stop. They should never have begun. But she’s lying back, and he’s hitching up her dress, as they squirm, hopelessly uncomfortable with pointy stairs jabbing into their sensitive bits. In order for him to push into the inviting warmth of her body, they have to contort and writhe, dripping sweat on each other, whispering, _no, you this way; you that_. 

With each thrust, she winces and braces her hands. He worries he’s hurting her, but she grabs his trouser-clad buttocks with both hands and shoves him in harder, deeper. When he slams against her inner wall, she whimpers, _yes_.

 _Oh dear, God._ He reaches between them with his thumb to rub her off, racing her to her conclusion. He learned sex from his mother’s French maid, and she taught him, always, always tend to your woman first. When Mary finds her edge, he can tell she’s going to be far too loud. He cups his free hand over her mouth, which she bites naughtily, insanely titillating.

 _Damn, damn_ , his brain spins. He must stop worrying they’ll be caught, or he’ll never finish; he’ll burst from the pressure building in his loins. She wraps her legs around his waist to help and gently moans, _Anthony_ … the first time she’s ever uttered his name during sex. In fact, he’s often wondered if she’s been thinking another name, another man. 

That gets him. He drives in and finishes, bucking roughly, slipping precariously down the steps. She has to hold up his monstrous weight with her delicate, little legs, and he’s so very sorry but also completely lost in rapture, in pleasure, and always, in love. He watches his seed dribble down her creamy, inner thighs into sheer, black stockings, dazed, stunned, when he should be dressing. 

At least Mary’s being sensible, pulling her clothes back into place and even stuffing him into his trousers. He’s acting stupid. He gets ridiculously emotional about her every time they make love. 

“Have you a handkerchief?” Mary’s dark eyes try to find him in his haze. 

“Of course. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, Tony.” She smiles wryly, receiving the square of disconcertingly virtuous white and wiping beneath her dress, as he finally attempts to straighten up. 

 “I don’t suppose you want this back?” she holds out the now-crumbled cotton on her open palm. 

“I do!” Tony replies, snatching it and shoving it deep into his breast pocket. “It’s quite special--belonged to Grandpapa.” 

“Oh dear,” she giggles, full of mischief. “I daresay he wouldn’t have approved.” 

“In fact,” Tony feels his eyes crinkle, “He might have. He was quite the rogue, you know.” 

A sudden rustle from below sends them flying up the staircase, Tony’s hand at the small of Mary’s back. They dash into the pink room where Mary nearly collides with Lady Edith.

Tony glances down to make sure he’s fully buttoned himself back in, and in doing so notices that Mary’s dress is snagged in her garter belt. As he slides beside her, he gently tugs it down and feels her stiffen. 

“Were you two coming up the back staircase?” Lady Edith inquires with a squint. Her wide eyes always remind Tony of a doe he once shot on the hunt, provoking a wave of inexplicable guilt. 

“What? No. We- I was simply showing Tony a painting,” Mary replies with an air of superior annoyance. 

“Yes, one of the paintings in the study,” Tony adds uselessly, as Mary makes fierce eye contact with him. He hopes that doesn’t mean there are _no_ paintings in the study.

“Oh, the one of the hounds?” Edith smiles placidly, as if her mind is occupied somewhere very distant (perhaps Germany). 

“That’s just the one. Tony was very fond of his fathers’ hounds, but he had to give them up when he passed on. Didn’t you, Tony?” Her voice is sharp as it always is around her sister. Tony doesn’t quite understand their rivalry, but neither does he wish to interfere. 

For his part, Tony is quite grateful that Edith has tacitly agreed to cover up their indecency. This could have gone much worse for them. 

As they drift back toward the merry melody of the band, Mary offers, “It’s a good thing it was only Edith. She’s too dull and distracted to make out what we’ve been doing.” 

Tony pauses and softly sweeps fingers over Mary’s bare, upper back, gooseflesh rising at his touch. “You underestimate your sister, Mary.” 

“You think she knows?” 

Tony just inclines his head and half-smiles. Not only does Edith know, but he senses she’s been in their shoes before. He and Mary sift back through the spinning pairs of dancers—black and white against splashes of turquoise, emerald, and ruby—to perch alongside the Dowager Countess, neither inclined to dance after their recent exertion. Indeed after receiving a glass of champagne, Tony grows excessively sleepy and fears an impolite yawn. He buries his lips in bubbles that tickle his nose just as the Dowager Countess chokes a bit on her own drink. 

“Excuse me!” she wipes at her lips with a finger, and instinctively, Tony reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief. 

He’s nearly extracted it when he glimpses Mary’s unrestrained horror. Flushing, he stuffs it away with a mumbled, “I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten I’d already used it this evening.” 

“It’s quite all right, Lord Gillingham.” The Dowager Countess scrutinizes him so closely that he drops his eyes back down to his drink. “You two young people are awfully quiet.” 

“Quiet?” Mary parrots, nearly as distracted as he. 

“Yes, Lord Gillingham looks quite ready to fall asleep in his champagne, and you appear positively romantic in your inner musings.” 

Tony wracks his brain for an excuse other than— _I’ve succumbed to post-coital stupor after rambunctiously taking your granddaughter on the servant’s stairs_ \--when the lulling warmth of Mary’s voice saves him. 

“Hardly, Granny. When I become a romantic the Downton pigs shall take wing and soar up into the vast, blue heavens.” 

Tony almost smiles, but really… he _is_ that winged pig, is he not?


End file.
